


The Nature of the Thing

by dannyPURO



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: A lil fluff, Fix-It, It's better now, It's just a whole bunch of emotions, M/M, The train scene, a lil angst, a lil smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 10:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyPURO/pseuds/dannyPURO
Summary: The train comes in a grind of brakes and a great screeching of metal, and all Elio can think is that it’s a little appropriate that something so brutal--something so willing to take Oliver away from him, something so willing to take, somehow, everything away from him--would sound so God damned unpleasant.“Do you have your passport?”a.k.a. i know the train scene was supposed to make me sad but it made me really sad so i had to write this to fix it





	1. Chapter 1

The train comes in a grind of brakes and a great screeching of metal, and all Elio can think is that it’s a little appropriate that something so brutal--something so willing to take Oliver away from him, something so willing to take, somehow, _everything_ away from him--would sound so god damned unpleasant.

“Do you have your passport?” he says, because he has to say something, because he simply doesn’t know what else he could possibly do. Oliver’s too close to the train, or the train is to close to him, or everything is too loud and too close or _something_ , though, because he doesn’t hear, doesn’t turn. Elio says it again, a little louder. “Do you have your passport?”

Oliver nods, smiles a little, and just like that, Elio has run out of things to say, and subsequently, things to do but to look hopelessly around himself and hope that some miracle occurs and fucking ache from the bottom of his heart. Because it hurts, it does, it fucking _hurts._

It must show in his eyes, at least a little, because Oliver keeps smiling that sad little smile and then reaches out to pull Elio into a hug. It’s warm, close, and Elio lets himself nuzzle into Oliver’s shoulder and shut his eyes and breathe deep.

Oliver smells of his cologne and the soap from the hotel and like sweat and like laundry detergent and like Oliver (and a little, just a little, like sex) and Elio wants to keep this. He _wants_ to.

It’s funny--he’d read somewhere that smell is the most powerful memory. He hopes it’s true, but either way, he’s never going to be able to forget this. He’s going to have this deep, clean, warm smell in the back of his mind until he dies, probably.

Outside of this, outside of Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Elio can hear the conductor speaking, the train doors shutting one by one, and Oliver can surely hear it, too, because he pulls back.

That’s too much, though, that’s a little heart-wrenching, that brings Elio very dangerously close to tears, so he pulls Oliver back in with a choked gasp and a hand at the back of that dark green shirt of his.

That earns him a breath of a laugh against his hair, but at least he gets a moment more.

It can’t last, though, and it doesn’t. Oliver pulls away slow, but he pulls away, still smiling softly, somehow, and Elio is left alone and an instant away from tears and watching as Oliver takes a step back, nods. As if to ask, _You okay?_

As if Elio could ever be okay.

He nods, though, because the train is going to leave, and Oliver needs to be on it, and it’s over. It’s over. It’s over.

Oliver bends to pick up his bags, but then sniffs, clears his throat, and stops, frozen halfway between standing and otherwise, his backpack dangling from his hand like some dead creature.

“Oliver?” Elio hazards.

And then Elio finds himself being pulled into another embrace, far closer than the first two. Like Oliver can’t bear to let go, either. It’s nice, it’s wonderful, and Elio finds it in himself to laugh, at first, but the Oliver doesn’t pull away.

Elio can see the conductor making his way towards them, checking doors and eyeing them with an impatient gaze, and it isn’t so funny anymore. “Oliver?”

“Sorry,” Oliver murmurs, and he sounds choked up from where he speaks against Elio’s neck.

“You’re going to miss the train,” Elio says, soft—says, because it’s true, but soft, because he wishes it weren’t so.

Oliver shakes his head, holds him tighter.

Elio, for some strange reason, can’t breathe. “Oliver,” he says. “Oliver, let go, the train is going to leave, come on.” Oliver has a life to get back to, a real life, he needs to be on that train. He needs to be on it, because if he isn’t, Elio doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to let him go again.

He can hear Oliver’s heartbeat, fast and loud.

The conductor passes them where they stand, but Oliver could still make it if he ran. He could make it.

Elio gives him a shove. “Oliver, let go! You’re going to miss it, let go!”

And then Oliver is crying. Sobbing, really—big chest-wracking sobs, tears running down his cheeks that Elio can feel hot on his skin. “I can’t,” he chokes out, and Elio doesn’t know what to do.

The train pulls away from the station with a heavy clatter.

Oliver just seems to collapse heavier down upon Elio. Elio lets him, because there is nothing left to do, now. He lets him, and he lets him cry, and he holds him close and lets himself be held tighter than he has ever been before.

It’s a beautiful day—warm, a little sunny through the mist. Elio takes it in as Oliver’s tears slow, as his breathing evens out a little, and once it has, Elio pulls back a step, lets his hands rest on Oliver’s shoulders, just to keep him close.

Oliver lets him.

Elio looks him over. His face—tear-streaked, red, a little puffy—is twisted by something akin to guilt and anxiety and adoration all in one. Which is strange; it’s not like Elio could ever turn him away.

“Oliver?”

“I’m sorry,” Oliver says once more, soft as anything. “I-” he breathes. “I _couldn’t._ ”

Elio breathes, too. “Okay. Okay.” God, what is he gonna do now, what is he gonna do now, what is he gonna do now, “What are you gonna do now?”

Oliver lets his forehead rest up against Elio’s. “I don’t know.”

God, this is going to be a mess.

Elio can’t help but to feel a little ecstatic at this flash of… of what, indecision? Sentimentality? Sudden and unbearable sexual arousal mixed with deep sadness?

Shit, regret?

Oh, God, what if Oliver regrets this? What if he gets bored of Elio, bored of Italy, bored of _them_? What if in three days, he’ll resent Elio and leave him without warning and Elio will be alone again, alone for real--nothing like those few seconds back there, that was nothing--and Oliver will never call again, and-

Elio can’t breathe, again.

He doesn’t want Oliver to leave. He doesn’t know how long this will last, but it won’t be enough.

He wraps his arms back around Oliver’s waist and buries his face in his chest and holds tight, and that seems to bring Oliver back to the present.

“Elio?” God, the way Oliver says his name.

 _I love you,_ Elio murmurs into the fabric of the shirt--green, still here.

Oliver freezes, and fuck, how is it that Elio managed to fuck this up already? God, he’s stupid. “What?”

He swallows, takes a deep breath, rests his forehead against Oliver’s clavicle. Oliver already knows, it’s too late to take it back, anyways. “I love you, I’m glad you stayed.”

Elio shuts his eyes, winces, waits for Oliver to take a step back and emphasize the fact that it really hasn’t been so long and they aren’t really anything and it’s not like that, but when he opens his eyes, Oliver is grinning-- bright and watery and beautiful.

Oliver lets out a shaky breath. “Wow.”

Elio stares up at him. “What?”

He shakes his head, laughs quietly. “All of it.”

And Elio nearly pouts, because he seriously just bared his heart and soul to Oliver and it’s the least he could do to be sympathetic, but then Oliver pulls him into another embrace and plants a kiss to the top of his head and there, against his curls, says, “I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

 They go back to the hotel. It’s easy enough to get their room back, and when they do, Elio lies on the bed, his head on Oliver’s lap as Oliver calls the airport and his boss and God knows who else.

Elio is, admittedly, a little out of it.

He dozes off after a while--the combination of the hot summer air and the sound of Oliver’s voice and the fingers running through his hair make it sickeningly easy. It’s nice, so nice. When he wakes, Oliver is watching him with soft eyes.

“You should call your parents,” he says. “They think you’re coming home today.”

Elio groans, shifts closer, wraps his arms around Oliver’s waist. “You do it.”

Oliver laughs--wonderful sound. “I can’t,” he says, only half joking. “They’ll think I kidnapped you.”

“Haven’t you?”

He frowns. “I hope not.” There’s something in his voice, then, a certain uncertainty, that gives Elio pause. “Have I?”

Elio shakes his head, buries his face back into the bulk of Oliver’s thigh. “No.”

Oliver laughs, then. “Good. Call your parents and tell them.”

He does. It’s an odd conversation, he supposes; it’s an odd situation. But he tells his mother that Oliver is staying in Italy for a little while longer, and that he himself will stay in Rome with him, and that he isn’t sure what will happen from there, and that he loves her and his father and everyone.

When he hangs up the phone, Oliver flops down on the bed, grabs his hand, and grins. Elio thinks it’s a little dumb for them to be in Rome and in the same bed and alone and in love and not be kissing, so he scoots up the bed a little and leans in and kisses Oliver deep and slow and perfect.

 

* * *

 

 That night, after dinner--and they do go out for dinner, and then dessert afterwards, and then just a few drinks after that--they fall back into bed together and Oliver strips Elio of his clothes like they’ve personally offended him and kisses down his neck and his chest and his stomach and then takes his dick into his mouth like he’d done that time in the doorway (and he’s still a bastard, for that, but he’s making up for it, he’s making up for it, he’s-).

Elio lets one hand tangle in Oliver’s hair, lets the other tangle in the soft sheets, and lets himself enjoy it all. It’s good, it’s so good, and Oliver is doing wonderful, amazing things with his tongue and he’s got his hands on Elio’s skin and it’s incredible, it’s all incredible, and it’s all too much, because how is he supposed to last, how is he supposed to last when Oliver is right there on him and _caring_ so much and looking up every so often with those eyes of his?

The question is moot, anyways, because he doesn’t last; he comes hard, gasping for breath, his hand clenching too hard in Oliver’s hair, relishing in every single thing around and on and in him.

When he’s finished, when he’s made his way through the aftershocks, Oliver makes his way back up Elio’s body and lays beside him and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

Elio gets his wits back eventually (mostly). He reaches out, relieves Oliver of his shirt, slips his hand into Oliver’s pants.

It’s quick, though Elio isn’t really one to speak. Oliver holds him close and breathes against his cheek and gasps when Elio does that thing with the tip, and when he comes, stunning and near-silent, Elio watches and swears never to give this up.

“Love you,” Oliver gasps.

Elio nearly cries, just from it all, but he holds it in.

Maybe some other time.

“Ti amo,” he says, smiling.

Oliver smiles, but Elio isn’t done.

“Je t’aime,” he says, a little softer, into Oliver’s chest.

Oliver huffs a little laugh, because he seems to get the game, now.

If Elio wanted to, he could stretch this out. Not that he really speaks any other languages--English excluded--but anyone knows how to say _I love you_. He could do Spanish, and German, and Russian (on second thought, he’s forgotten it in Russian, so maybe not), and Hebrew, and Portuguese, and all that.

That’s not what it’s about, though.

“Love you,” Elio murmurs, instead of the Spanish or the German or the Hebrew or the Portuguese or certainly the Russian.

Oliver kisses his curls and holds him tight until they fall asleep, and then longer.

 

* * *

 

When Elio wakes in Oliver’s arms the next morning, half-blinded by golden summer sun, Oliver is already awake and watching him like somebody had given him all the stars in the sky.

It’s a little ridiculous, sure, but after all, isn’t that just how Elio feels?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oliver doesn't have a girlfriend. things work out. leaf me alone.  
> EDIT: also there's a 2nd chapter now because i was bullied (gently persuaded) into writing one go read about oliver's emotions


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver doesn’t sleep much, that night. He’s not…  _ disturbed _ , not even restless, nothing like that at all, it’s just that-

It’s just that he keeps waking up with a jolt, sure that it’s all been one wonderful dream, and then opening his eyes to see the same hotel room around him and having Elio, wonderful Elio, groan a complaint and press closer to Oliver’s chest in the hot summer night, and then he is struck with this delirious panicky joy that keeps him up for a little while. 

It’s no tragedy, though, not really, because he spends all that time gazing hopelessly at Elio, lit up by the moonlight streaming in through the window, features so soft and calm and peaceful. 

God, he’s a sap.

If Elio were awake, Oliver realizes in one such instance of early-early-early-morning shock, he’d probably tease him a little for the lovestruck gaze that he just knows is in his eyes. 

Whatever. Elio’s a sap, too. 

He drifts off again, with time, but not before he buries his face in Elio’s curls and shuts his eyes and breathes deep and marvels at it all.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up a little earlier than Elio, when he wakes up for real--no surprise there. Elio sleeps late. He opens his eyes to golden Roman sunrise and golden Elio Perlman and is struck, yet again, by the fact that this is real. He skipped his train, missed his flight, stayed in Italy with the Professor’s son. With Elio.

Elio.

Elio, who loves him.

Elio, who said so.

God, what is his life, even? How could it be that Elio, wonderful Elio, brilliant Elio, with even more of his life ahead of him than Oliver has--and Oliver is hardly old--wanted this to mean so much? Wanted this to last?

How could it be that Elio loves him? How-

Elio--speak of the devil--stirs, then, snuffles against Oliver’s chest, squints open his eyes.

And oh, if he isn’t beautiful, Oliver doesn’t know what is.

“Morning,” Oliver says, because Elio is gazing up at him with those big bold eyes of his. 

“Morning,” Elio says, and then he kisses him.

Oliver kisses back on an instinct, in an instant, in entirety. Elio tastes like sleep, sour--Oliver does too; it hardly matters. It hardly matters, because Elio is grappling at his hair and shoulders and kissing him with an odd desperation, now, and it’s wonderful, of course, but it’s also enough for Oliver to pull back and take Elio’s face in his hands and ask, “You okay?”

Elio shrugs, suddenly shy. “It’s strange.”

Oliver thinks he understands exactly, but he needs to hear what he means, anyways. “How so?”

“I almost thought it was a dream,” he says, and that makes two of them. “I didn’t think I’d see you again, but here you are.”

Oliver huffs a laughs, pulls close again, plants a kiss somewhere near Elio’s cheekbone. “Here I am.” 

They lie in bed for a little while longer, just the two of them, just together, and then Oliver jostles Elio, bringing him back from the brink of dozing off once more. “Hey,” he says, and Elio smiles. “Breakfast?”

Elio nods.

They go for breakfast--a little café with tables outside, where they find themselves--and Elio drinks his coffee and eats his pastry, and Oliver drinks  _ his  _ coffee and watches Elio. 

It’s all a little bizarre, honestly. 

“This is crazy,” Oliver admits, once he’s set his coffee down. “This is totally crazy, right?”

Elio stiffens, lets his gaze drop, and shit, that’s not what Oliver meant. (Not that he knows what Elio’s thinking, not that he ever knows, but he knows it’s not right, because Oliver isn’t thinking anything close to regret.) “You’re the one who missed the train,” he mutters, crossing an arm over himself, closing himself off.

“I didn’t  _ miss the train _ ,” Oliver says, only half fake-indignant. 

Elio snorts, but it’s a little bitter. “Yes, you did. You did.”

He takes a refined sip of coffee, because he’s got a point to make, here. “I didn’t. I just decided that I didn’t want to be on it.”

“Oh,” Elio whispers. 

“Yeah,  _ oh, _ ” Oliver says, but there’s a certain stunned look on Elio’s face that makes the morning air feel just a little warmer. “You didn’t realize that?” he asks, then, a little softer. 

Elio shakes his head. “I mean- I just mean that I didn’t really- I didn’t-” he breaks off, looks up at Oliver hopelessly.

Oliver brushes his fingertips over the delicate bones of Elio’s wrist, nudges Elio’s foot with his own. “I may not be a musical genius like some people, but I’m not that dumb. Have a little faith.”

Elio clears his throat, blushes a truly vibrant pink. “Yeah, okay.”

 

* * *

 

Elio goes to buy something from the store and Oliver uses the payphone to call his on-again-off-again-currently-off-again-girlfriend. Eventually, he figures, as the other line rings, he’s going to have to tell Elio about this. Not right away, of course--Elio doesn’t need the guit, and they really weren’t together, not for any of it--but it seems right to. An even better man would probably call her with Elio there, of course, but Oliver figures he owes her a little bit of privacy. She is, at the end of the day, a wonderful girl. 

She picks up, says hello, says, “Oliver?”

Oliver takes a deep breath. “Marion.”

“Oliver.”

“Hi, Marion.”

“Hi, Oliver, how’s Italy?” She asks, and she sounds--justifiably--very confused. 

“Nice. It’s nice, it’s-” Oliver sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. “Listen, Marion, question for you.”

“Sure.”

He takes a breath. “Are you still kind of waiting for me to come back?”

She sighs, he can hear it. “We both know it isn’t really like that. It-”

“I know. But-”

“But I’m waiting for you as much as I did before.”

Oliver knows what that means--not really, mostly just focused on her newspaper gig and softball coaching, but still waiting. “I need you to not wait for me anymore, Marion,” he blurts out, because Elio will surely be coming out of the store any minute, now, and this is important. It’s important that he really end this. 

There’s a pause. “I-” she swallows. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome.”

She sighs. “Okay, then. Call me if you need anything, I guess. I have to go.”

“Thanks, Marion.”

“Bye, Oliver.” 

They both hang up.

Oliver takes a deep breath.

Elio comes out of the store, tossing something back and forth between his hands. “Forgot my chapstick,” he calls, when he’s nearly reached Oliver, but then he frowns. “What’s up?”

Oliver pulls Elio in for a hug, never mind the chapstick package digging into his gut from where Elio’s got his arms pinned awkwardly. “Nothing,” he says, and then, softer, “I love you.”

Elio nods, whispers it back, presses the slightest hint of a kiss to Oliver’s neck--just because there’s nobody around. 

It’s still crazy to hear it aloud. 

“Remind me to tell you something tomorrow,” Oliver says, once he’s let go, because he can’t bare to keep anything from Elio anymore, even if he knows Elio won’t take it badly.

“Okay,” Elio says, back to frowning once more. 

He jostles Elio as they start back to the hotel. “Nothing bad,” he says. “Promise.” He thinks about it a little more, then--thinks about what it really means, thinks about what he just gave up (what he’d just  _ wanted  _ to give up, more importantly, and then did), thinks about what can happen now. “Something good, actually. I just want to wait until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Elio muses, like he likes the sound of it.

Honestly, Oliver thinks he likes the sound of it, too. “Tomorrow.”

Elio starts singing that  _ Tomorrow  _ song from that one musical, under his breath and jokey but still far too beautiful.

 

* * *

 

They fuck, once they get back to the hotel, soft and desperate at the same time. Oliver swears he is aware of every single inch of skin touching between them. Oliver swears they get closer every time they do this. Oliver swears he’s about three fucks from simply becoming one in the middle, he swears he won’t mind, he swears that this is all he wants, he swears that he loves this and Elio and everything more than anything at all, he swears, he-

Elio gasps, hot and heady, against Oliver’s skin, and whispers there,  _ Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio Elio Elio ElioElioElioElio  _ until he can’t manage words anymore, and then Oliver fucks into him harder and breathes his own name right back.

When Elio comes, he bites down on Oliver’s bare shoulder maybe too hard, but all Oliver can think is that he’s so glad to be able to feel it all in every way. 

He’s going to have a bruise, he realizes, when Elio pulls back and plants a kiss there and whispers, “Sorry, love you.”

Oliver comes.

 

* * *

 

“Seriously, though,” Elio says, once they’ve both recovered (save for the bruise on Oliver’s shoulder--good) and have washed off and gotten dressed and gone out to eat. “What are you doing here? What are you going to do here? What are you going to do?”

Oliver takes a deep breath--breathes in the Roman air, breathes in Elio--and looks around their little table and smiles. “We can figure that out later, there’s no rush,” he says. “Not with you.”

“Tomorrow, then?” Elio asks.

Tomorrow sounds good. Really good. Tomorrow, Oliver can figure out how he’s going to make this work--and he will make this work, damn it all. Tomorrow, he can call around and explain a little better to the Perlmans and contact the University. Tomorrow, he can figure out just how much more research he can do in Italy before he starts having to make other excuses. Tomorrow, they can start something.

Tomorrow. 

“Yeah, okay,” Oliver says, and he can feel Elio’s foot, free from its sandal, atop his own. “Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's time... for more sweet emotions! and also for me to deal with plot and all that coolthxbye


End file.
